


the goldbeaters

by catchafallingstarfish (spaceboy_niko)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF, ScrewAttack RPF
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Making Out, Underage Drinking, there's a lot of goldschlager it's my new aesthetic, they get into a fancy cocktail bar with fake ids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 10:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14913380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceboy_niko/pseuds/catchafallingstarfish
Summary: They're young, drunk, and Sam thinks they're in love.They're definitely in love with liquor.





	the goldbeaters

**Author's Note:**

> heads up for underaged drinkin boys, i'm pretty sure fuck age in america is 18 but drink age is 21 so just. the fuckin is legal the drinkin is not, don't sue me  
> heavily influenced by six feet under the stars by all time low, forgot how much it banged

Sam wishes he could see his fingerprints on Chad’s side, sticking out like a crime scene on his hip and wrist and arm from when he’d dragged Chad up the beach as the tide came in just a bit too far. Now they’re sitting on the pier, nowhere near the end, passing their slightly-sandy bottle of Jaegermeister between them and watching the water lap at their messy footprints.

“It’s getting late,” Chad remarks offhandedly for what is maybe the fourth time, but Sam knows he’s not going to try leaving anytime soon.

“Who gives a shit?” he says instead. “We can just keep hanging out here for hours. Days. Weeks. Months–”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chad laughs. “Don’t know why you’d wanna. Look at this place, it’s a pile of crap.”

Sam can’t argue, and instead makes grabby hands at the bottle again. He’s not the biggest fan of Jaeger, doesn’t like how it’s so sweet and all the flavours on his tongue, but Chad’s the one who actually looks like an adult both on his fake ID and in real life, and so Chad gets to pick the booze.

Whatever. It somehow keeps Chad around, so Sam’s not going to complain.

* * *

They always start their – well, Sam doesn’t exactly want to call them _dates_ , except he does and they are – nights out at around the same time, meeting under the lamppost on the street corner about a block and a half away from the boat ramps and another couple blocks away from the two or three bottle shops that haven’t caught on to the fact that they’re underage and their IDs are so obviously fakes.

Tonight it’s cold, and Sam is regretting wearing his hoodie that barely knows it’s meant to keep him warm, but Chad looks so _good_ bundled up in his thick jacket. Which he knows is more to hide the booze than keep them warm, but it doesn’t change the fact that it sets a fire in Sam’s gut that he tries really hard to will away.

It takes them mere minutes to walk down to the lake’s foreshore, the icy air biting at Sam’s face.

“Dude, your face is nearly as red as your hair,” he quips, and Chad socks him in the arm with the hand not cradling the bottle under his jacket.

It’s not the smooth movie hero line he’s been meaning to deliver for months now, but it’s good enough, and Sam settles with continuing to try to impress Chad by dicking around.

That is, until he’s jumping between the poles holding the pier up and he nearly misses one, landing on his ankle funny and overbalancing, watching the dark lapping water rush up to meet his face with a sort of accepting panic until Chad yanks him back up by his hood with a laugh.

“Fuckin’ klutz, haven’t even started drinking yet.”

“Shoulda taken you down with me, asshole,” Sam grumbles, and they make their way further out over the water in an amicable silence.

The bottle Chad pulls out this time is not Jaeger, but is still equally terrible in Sam’s mind. Goldschlager, he thinks, is for old people who don’t drink anymore but want something pretty to go in a dusty old cabinet so they can look like they do.

But he still watches Chad shake the gold flakes around and twist the cap off, and he still takes a swig when Chad passes the bottle over to him, making a face.

“One day,” he says, licking the gold off his teeth, “we might actually buy more than one bottle of something at a time and then we can mix this with something else. Y’know, like a Liquid Cocaine or something.”

“Liquid Cocaine sounds like something you’ll regret in the morning,” Chad observes between grimacing sips. “Forgot how strong this stuff was.”

“That’s why they sell it in such a weird bottle. Strong liquor always has weird bottles.”

The bottle empties a lot quicker than it has done in the past, and all of Sam is cold but he feels like he should be a lot warmer from the alcohol and the cinnamon.

He makes a bit of a show of shivering. “Shouldn’ta brought you out tonight,” he says apologetically. “Fuckin’ freezing.”

“I’d give you my jacket, but like you said, fuckin’ freezing.”

Sam waggles his eyebrows and presses in close to Chad. “Gonna let me into that warm jacket of yours?” The gold flakes glisten on his grin and he’s cold-burning fingerprints onto Chad again as he fidgets with the bulky buttons.

It’s Chad who closes the distance between them, pressing gold-plated lips against the vicinity of Sam’s mouth, and Sam very nearly manages to wriggle into his coat while his face is occupied.

Chad jerks away from his cold hands and drunkenly calls him a bitch and Sam laughs and laughs, and it all tastes like cinnamon schnapps.

* * *

Sam harbours this little almost-fantasy about finally getting Chad into a bar or a club or a nice restaurant where they can get cocktails, because the whole drinking-straight-liquor-on-the-docks thing is honestly a shitty effort on both of their parts. But he still goes, because Chad will still wait for him there unless he pulls his head out of his ass and suggests they do something different.

This week, it was his turn, and he’s brought them something fucking decent, a bottle of Jameson tucked into a paper bag in his jacket. He wore a bigger one this time, mainly for the purpose of hiding the alcohol, but it did help with keeping him warmer than last time.

Chad seems to drink less this week, but he’s still the handsy laughing drunk he normally is, and Sam rolls his mental dice and prays they don’t come up snake eyes as he clambers onto Chad, revelling in the scrape of stubble on his whiskey-tingling lips.

He dimly realises that he is so, so fucked, but Chad hooks his fingers into his belt loops and pulls Sam off-balance and on top of him, and yeah, if Chad could just keep doing that sort of slow-roll-thing with his hips while he – oh, shit – bites at Sam’s collarbone under his jacket, that’d be really fucking wonderful.

He’s definitely not cold anymore.

Once his brain is done short-circuiting in his jeans, he is more than happy to use Chad as a pillow, because Chad doesn’t complain in the afterglow, and then Sam thinks he nearly ruins it by saying quietly, “Let’s go somewhere better next time.”

But Chad moves his hand from where it’s tangled in Sam’s hair, and half-sits up, eyes interested. “Like where?”

Sam can’t believe he’s about to fucking do this.

“I dunno, like there.” The opulent neon of the cocktail bar on the lakefront glistens on the inky water as he points.

Chad’s eyes go wide. “No.”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll never get in!”

“You underestimate our power. I look old enough, and you’ve got the voice to sound like you’ve just been cursed with the misfortune of a baby face.”

Chad rolls them over with a grin. “Take that back, you asshole.”

Sam grins back, and Chad stops propping himself up and Sam would be very okay if his death involved being crushed by Chad James.

“Let me take you out sometime. What do you say?” he asks with the bit of air left in his lungs.

“Okay,” Chad says, his warm voice muffled in Sam’s hair and Sam’s neck and Sam’s jacket. “But if you can’t get us in, you’re paying for the next ten.”

“Okay,” Sam says breathlessly.

* * *

They meet at their usual spot, only this time they both scrub up a bit nicer and they don’t go their usual way, instead sticking to the warmly lit shopfronts and restaurant windows that look out onto the lake. They don’t leave footprints this time, step-beats leaving impressions in the night’s white noise until they’re faced with the tastefully showy neon.

“Last chance to back out, if you wanna,” Chad mutters, grinning.

Sam takes his hand and boldly strolls them up to the door, and the fact that the doorman’s in a suit should be a sign that this is too high class for them in their best jeans, the ones that aren’t ripped, and their good shirts, the ones they wear for weddings and funerals and grandparents’ birthdays.

Sam knows the key to this kind of thing is confidence, sounding like you know what you’re doing, and so he swallows his pride and his guilt and says in the most grown-up voice he can muster, “Table for two?”

Like predicted, the doorman raises an eyebrow and asks for ID, and Sam can’t help but think with the facial hair Chad’s got happening, he shouldn’t even need to be asked for ID, but he guesses it’s protocol. They both flash their IDs and somehow, miraculously, they’re ushered in and sat on a soft low L-shaped sofa bending around a dark wood table.

“I cannot believe we did this,” Chad says, somewhat awestruck once the waiter has left them. “You are the most ridiculous motherfucker.”

“I am the best motherfucker,” Sam corrects, leaning in close to read the drinks list over Chad’s shoulder. “And you love me, otherwise you wouldn’t have come here with me. And because you love me, you should let me order a drink for you.”

Chad slides the menu into Sam’s lap with an eye-roll and a smile.

Sam orders Chad something called a gingerbread man, and Chad gives the highball glass a swish that makes the ice cubes rattle and the gold flakes swirl around like stars in a snow-globe.

“Really? Goldschlager? Thought you hated it.” Sam shrugs as he steals another sip.

“I dunno, you making out with me with a mouth full of it kinda changed my mind.”

Sam grins when his own drink arrives, and lets Chad take a confused first sip.

“Not bad. What is it?”

“That, Chad James,” he says, “is peach schnapps, Jaeger and cranberry juice named especially for you.”

Chad raises an eyebrow.

“It’s a redheaded slut, Chad.”

“Bitch,” Chad says affectionately.

“It’s also called a ginger bitch, if you’re gonna be like that.”

Sam discovers that Goldschlager tastes nicer on Chad’s lips when it has Bailey’s and butterscotch to back it up.

* * *

The next week, it’s Sam’s ratty hoodie and Chad’s jeans with holes in the knees back down by the docks, and there’s sand in his shoes again because they always forget that the tide does come in eventually.

Chad bought again, and Sam is glad to see he's had a good influence on him for once. He's not going to turn down free-ish Fireball.

"Not as good as any fancy cocktail bar, but it'll do."

Sam twists off the cap and mock-raises a toast. "To not giving enough of a shit to pay for fancy cocktails more than once, and to the massive dent in my savings account. Here's lookin' at you, ginger bitch."

Chad takes a drink after him. "Tastes like Goldschlager," he grins.

Sam kisses Chad, long and hard, until they have to break apart for air.

"Nah. Not the same."

"They're both cinnamon, what the fuck?"

"Yeah, but it's schnapps and whiskey, of fucking course they taste different! Also, there's no bits in this," he adds.

"What, you don't like drinking 24-karat gold?"

"You taste better than any fuckin' metal, baby, now come here."

He kisses Chad again, and Chad follows him gratefully, breaking them apart only to coerce Sam onto his back before unbuckling his belt and putting his warm mouth to damn good use.

Sam has a bit of trouble returning the favour, because his cold hands make Chad complain and swat him away, so instead he settles for grinding his hips up into worn denim and dotting marks affectionately along his neck until Chad does his happy sigh-moan-thing that Sam loves and goes all boneless above him, and his next drink of Fireball tastes strong in Sam's mouth, along with–

"Ew, dude, gross, jizz and Fireball tastes fuckin' awful. Worse than Goldschlager."

But he still kisses Chad again.

**Author's Note:**

> oh BABY i am back!!!! im back and ive officially, once again, written 50% of the tag  
> good work team pack it up  
> and ive finally figured out how to link things in html so you can find [my writing blog](catchafallingstarfish.tumblr.com) or [my main](%E2%80%9Cspaceboy-niko.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D) right there


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